


The Art And Process of Knifemaking

by Phos4



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School
Genre: Angst, Blacksmithing, Canonical Character Death, Cutting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Self-Harm, Sonosuke and Seiko Reparations, Survivor Izayoi, Survivor Seiko
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phos4/pseuds/Phos4
Summary: Sonosuke gets home to his forge after a long absence, and makes a tool he's been needing for a while.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	The Art And Process of Knifemaking

Sonosuke took off his coat, put on his smithing apron, and got to work. He roughed out a simple blade design: three inches long, straight edge, and a small hole to pivot on a handle and flip out. He drew out the rough shape on a piece of paper, glued it to a piece of M390 stock, and cut it to shape. Usually he’d make the steel from scratch, but he had been saving the stock for something special, something important.

It had been two weeks since the end of the Final Killing Game. Somehow, Ruruka got her hands on Seiko’s antagonist for the bracelet poison, along with a potent anesthesia. She sacrificed herself for him, leaving a note that only had four words on it.

_I’m sorry. Live free._

He took the knife to the belt sander to take the blade further to shape, and began to profile the edge. The gentle rhythm of _sand, quench, check; sand, quench, check_ brought him into a trance, slowly bringing the blade closer and closer to his favorite part of blademaking.

He wasn’t quite sure what Ruruka meant by saying he should “live free”, but knowing his brain it would strike him at the worst possible time. Maybe it had to do with Seiko, who had finally warmed up to him again after Ruruka’s passing. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he didn’t mourn Ruruka’s death at all. Maybe it had to do with why he was making this stupid shitty knife when he could be making some masterpiece of a blade. Maybe it had to do with the s- “Shit.” He quickly quenched the blade in oil. He got so sidetracked with his racing mind the blade heated enough to burn him. Nothing bad enough to injure, but enough to hurt. He took a quick look at the blade, and, satisfied with the shape, he moved over to the drying room.

He looked for the piece of wood he would make the handle from. He had selected it a week ago, and started drying it three days before The Game: a piece of inch thick bloodwood that the late Ultimate Farmer had grown. He took it over to the band saw, cut it into two rectangles, and started using the belt sander to take it to shape. How Daisaku managed to grow a South American tree in Japan after The Tragedy is something Sonosuke will never understand, but a task that difficult was probably no challenge for someone with the title of “Super High-School Level.”

And yet as the supposed “Ultimate Blacksmith”, Sonosuke couldn’t handle a simple chakram. _You’re a fucking idiot, Yoi-chan._ It was always her voice. Always Ruruka’s. _You’ve made blades far more intricate and complex than this, so what is it with this one circle? Are you sure you’re the Ultimate Blacksmith after all?_ The voice taunted him, haunted him in his every making moment. “Why was it always her voice?” he wondered aloud.

He formed the scales to a shaping he found comfortable. He stained the wood with an oil stain, and decided to seal it later. He used the locking assembly from a store bought knife in order to have a flippable blade. He dry fitted the assembly with the scales and blade and, after a few light adjustments, riveted the handle together, and moved over to the water basin.

The whetstones had been soaking for about twenty minutes. He pulled out his favorite starter, a simple German 1000 grit stone, and began gently stroking the blade against the stone, occasionally dabbing it with a few drops of water to clean and lubricate it. Profiling and sharpening were always his favorite parts of knifemaking. It was the part where the knife truly came into its own, and developed its personality. The feeling of the knife as it glides over the stones, leaving a worse part of itself behind, is one of the small number of things that can clear his raucous mind.

And yet, it doesn’t stop it from racing today. Thoughts of Ruruka’s last words, of Seiko’s acts of kindness, of the Final Killing Game, of everything, but all surrounding around one thing. “Why did she forgive me if I betrayed her?”

The thought was defining. The one thing no one could be redeemed from was betrayal and yet, by living when Ruruka had told him to die, he committed the highest treason against her. And yet she was the one asking for forgiveness. Sonosuke quietly checks the knife, seeing a burr on either side of the edge. He switches to the 6000 grit stone, and begins the rhythm of stroking and wetting again.

_I must not have loved her enough. I must not have done enough for her, or done enough to protect her from Seiko, or anything._ The light screeching of the blade was silent compared to the deafening screams in his head. He kept working on the edge, taking more and more as the pressure inside his body built higher and higher. He push-cut the blade against a piece of scrap paper, and, after seeing it cut, moved to the strop to finish the blade. _There must have been something, anything. Maybe it was because I tried to make reparations with Seiko, or because I wanted to go out and meet new friends more often, or something,_ anything _, because it couldn’t be her fault._ He tested the sharpness of the blade by trying to shave some hair off his arm, and after seeing it shaved effortlessly, he had to put his blade to one final test.

He rolled up the sleeve on his right arm, and pressed the blade across his wrist, starting gently, but pressing firmer over time. He had cut before, it’s why he got into smithing, and it was his biggest comfort after the incident with Seiko. As he took the knife away and watched the blood pour from his wrist, every ounce of pressure clouding his mind immediately faded, and one statement showed up with deafening clarity.

_Oh god. Ruruka was horrible. And she knew it._

It came back in waves. Moments of fogginess followed by moments of cutting followed by moments of clarity. He’d given himself five shallow cuts before he noticed the tears on his face. Suddenly it all made sense. The control of friendships, communication, using the sweets, the gaslighting, everything. He’d given himself one more when he heard the door open, and saw a familiar masked face walk in.

“Sonosuke?”


End file.
